Quillon's Covert (2 page)

“Yeah, says the thirty-four-year-old,” Marty snickered.

“Whatever. If you think you can stay awake, keep an eye on the supplies as we make it up the hill.”

“So that’s how it’s gonna be this year, huh? Well, I warn ya, I’m not the same thirteen-year-old I was last year. You spar with me, Old Man, and—”

Martin reached over and ran his fingers along his son’s rib cage, immediately filling the cab with both laughter and loud protests.

“Tickling is for slow-witted cheaters, I’ll have you know!”

“Psh!” Martin waved his hand. “Eyes on the truck bed…if my Oreos fall out, you’re gonna be sorry.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’re already here.”

And they were. Martin pulled up to the back of the single room cabin, surrounded by mature trees and a shimmering lake just beyond, then killed the engine.

“One job,” he chided while they both pushed open their doors to the fresh mountain air and stepped out, “I give you just one job: watch the Oreos and—”

Marty pulled his T-shirt over his head and quirked a jesting eyebrow at the bed full of supplies. “Well, I’m glad I only had the one job. I’ll grab the fishing poles and wait on the dock while you unload, then.”

Martin, now bare-chested as well, undid his shorts and stepped out of them. “Ha! You should be so lucky, Squirt. No, I believe the Quillon Handbook clearly states the younger, inferior member of the tribe—”

Marty had also dropped his shorts. He bent down, picked them up, and chucked them at his father’s head.

“Inferior
‽
”

Martin watched Marty begin to sprint around the truck bed. His son’s mirth was infectious, and Martin couldn’t help smiling at the boy’s playfulness. Martin quickly eyed the packed truck, decided the unloading could wait, then turned and jogged toward the lake.

“Oh! You can run, but you can’t hide, Old Man!”

Martin laughed at Marty’s words and at his son’s crunching footfalls as the boy tried to catch up.

Marty / 14

What a life.

Marty tried but couldn’t think of anything better than the feeling of the lake’s warm water hitting his feet, then his thighs, and finally licking his belly button before he paused to watch Martin. Even though he’d come to look forward to their two-week retreat every year, his dad really depended on getaways. Marty didn’t even feel bad anymore that mom didn’t come along. She often cheerfully reminded them that their “boy’s trip” was an escape for her, too, before shooing ’em off.

His dad’s head dipped under the water and then broke the surface with a splash. The sun caught the drops in his hair and on his forehead just right, magnifying his grin. That moment, right there, Marty would never forget no matter how old he got. The joy in Dad’s eyes, the ease of his smile. Who knew the simple act of swimming could provide such incredible memories?

Before Marty could react to what was happening, his dad had closed the distance between them and pounced on him. Martin tackled him to the soft sand of the shoreline and they fell awkwardly into the shallower water. But Marty gave just as good as he got, and immediately initiated the
dunk the other’s head under the water
game. Although his father was unquestionably stronger, Marty was quick and able to hold his own, so long as he kept moving. Allowing Martin to gain a firm hold would swiftly lead to him being overpowered. After exhausting themselves, they settled into the relaxing water and enjoyed the quiet enveloping them.

Later, as the sun started its descent, Marty’s anticipation of the pending barbecue grew. The barbecue was the inauguration of their two-week retreat.

“Hey,” Dad called out as the Wiffle ball he'd thrown back to Marty landed short. “Hot dogs?”

Marty shrugged while sneakily swimming closer to the shore. “What, you getting tired, Old Man? Cuz that was a lame throw.” As soon as his feet hit the sand, he started for the cabin. “Last one there lights the grill!” he yelled over his shoulder, and then laughed as his dad suddenly splashed to catch up.

Time seemed to fly by. When he was a kid he never noticed. But now, at fourteen, it was something Marty was beginning to see more clearly. It felt like only yesterday that they’d arrived at the cabin, and already a week of their time had vanished. It sucked.

Marty smiled as he watched his dad from over his shoulder. Martin’s sweat-streaked hair stuck out from beneath his backward baseball cap, his head bobbing in frustration as his large fingers tried to flip through the tablet’s screen searching its library for a movie.

“How’s the popcorn coming?” he asked distractedly.

“It’s burning.” Marty said from the small kitchenette.

“Good. Not too much though, right? And more butter!”

“There’s plenty of butter already.” Marty dumped the perfectly char-grilled popcorn into a large bowl. Studying it a moment, he shrugged and splashed more melted butter over the top. After a generous sprinkling of salt, he tossed a few dark, buttery pieces into his mouth and crunched. Perfect, exactly how they loved it, he thought. “Leave the popcorn to the master and try to find us somethin’ to watch, Old Man,” he joked, crossing the few steps into the living room. “And please, somethin’ that was made
after
I was born.”

Martin tapped the tablet slightly, as if he could get it to scroll by vibration alone. “You have no appreciation for the classics. And why is this thing so difficult to use?” A quick hand darted up from the tablet to steal the bowl of popcorn. “Yum. It looks good.”

“It’s not difficult,” Marty said with a laugh. “You always try and treat it like an old softball glove instead of like a piece of electronics. Be gentle with it and it’ll work just fine.”

Then, just as quickly, Marty lifted the bowl out of his dad’s lap, before he could stick his fingers into it, and held it out of reach. “You’ll thank me in a few minutes. Find the movie first, then you can butter up your fingers with the popcorn. Otherwise we’ll never get the tablet clean, and we’ll have to watch the entire movie through greasy fingerprints.”

Martin offered an exaggerated sigh and began flipping through the tablet again while rubbing his toes along the leg of the oak coffee table. The summer dad was fifteen, he’d made the table with Granddad, from wood that grew on their property. Their initials were carved into one leg, and his dad’s toes always seemed to find that spot.

Marty looked around the one-room cabin while his dad tried to
tap
a movie out of a tablet that required a
sliding
finger. It was a small but cozy space. The front door bisected the room; along one wall ran the kitchenette, with a countertop-two-burner stove, a utilitarian sink under a small window, and a refrigerator; the other half held the living room, with its sofa, coffee table, and single end table; and along the back wall was the double bed and nightstand. It wasn’t fancy, by any means, but it was comfortable in its sparseness. As his eyes roamed around, they landed on several other oak items Martin and Granddad had made; the small, smooth kitchenette countertop, the funky little chair in the corner that never got used, and finally what slept next to the bed and currently stole his attention. The paddle. Its surface, worn to a smooth luster over the course of its thirty years of life, gave it a deceivingly soft appearance. Marty knew first hand it was anything but. That perpetual shine, currently covered with a year’s worth of dust, had captivated him since his first visit to the cabin—the first time he’d laid eyes on it—three years ago. That was also the first time he’d felt its bite against his bare ass, and that wasn’t something he’d ever forget. He gave a brief shiver; thankful he hadn’t done anything to warrant his butt seeing that particular piece of oak this year.

Martin, finally choosing a movie and wedging the tablet into a makeshift stand on top of the table, attempted to follow Marty’s gaze toward the sleeping area.

“Um, we can drag the twin beds back out of the shed if you want? We’d have to make a trip into town and get a few mattresses, but we could do that tomorrow.”

“Huh?” Marty asked in confusion.

Martin lifted a large shoulder. “I mean, I know we got the double bed up here when you were still occasionally sleeping with Mom and me at home. But, if you’re too old now, or just don’t—”

“Oh,” Marty said in understanding. “No, not unless you just want to.” With a tilt of his head toward the paddle, he said, “I was looking at Granddad’s paddle, not the bed.”

After the whole candy cane thing, Marty had suffered from horrible choking nightmares and no matter what his parents did, they couldn’t convince him to sleep
alone
in his own room. For years they’d all pile into his mom and dad’s bed at night. And even though he’d stopped sleeping with them, he and Martin routinely snuggled up on the sofa together at home to watch TV in the evenings. He still found great comfort in their closeness, and they’d always slept together at the cabin.

“I mean, unless you want to?” Marty asked hesitantly.

His dad snorted up at him from the couch. “Do I wanna work in a hot shed tomorrow, drive into town, shop for mattresses, lug them back up here? Or do I wanna lay in the sun, fish, and drink beer? Are those my options? Cuz, that’s a no-brainer.” He paused, looked back toward the paddle, and raised a half jesting eyebrow at Marty. “And why are you so focused on the paddle? Something I need to know about?”

“Heck no! I was just lookin’—”

Martin smiled and slapped the sofa cushion next to him.

“Okay then. So now, popcorn?”

“Depends,” Marty said, regaining his composure and holding the bowl just out of his dad’s reach. “What movie did you choose?”

“
Fast and the Furious
.”

“Which one?” Marty asked suspiciously, lowering the bowl to within an inch of his father’s outstretched hand.

“The last damn one, now put your skinny butt down here already and hand over the popcorn.”

As Marty grinned and sank down on the sofa, Martin reached over, grabbed the bowl, and nodded to the tablet. “Start that thing, would ya? I think it’s broken.”

“It’s not broken…” Marty started, but then trailed off. He’d just about given up on teaching Martin how to use the iPad and text from his cell phone. Although he suspected his dad knew how to text, but just refused to do it.

After starting the movie, he dug into the butter-soaked, flamed popcorn, and settled in next to Martin to enjoy the good-looking Vin Diesel and Paul Walker—for the umpteenth time.

No matter how many times they watched it together, neither of them grew bored. Marty even knew at which precise intervals his dad would react.

He watched Martin out of the corner of his eye, picking the crunchy, half-popped kernels from the bottom of the bowl, and allowed his gaze to fall on his dad’s broad, hairy, defined chest. It was exactly the kind of chest he wanted, and what he was going to work his lanky ass off to make happen this year. He didn’t allow himself more than a brief look at Martin’s chest, though; lately he noticed a strange fluttering in his stomach if he stared too long.

Despite the window air conditioner, the cabin was still warm and a bit muggy. He knew it would eventually cool off. But as they both sat naked, sweat trickled its way down Marty’s arms while Martin’s chest only shone with a sheen of dampness that just seemed to make him even manlier. His dad managed to look like a stud where Marty just felt like a sweaty kid.

“What are you frowning about?”

“Huh?” Was he staring? Had his dad noticed?

Martin dragged his gaze from the movie and focused it on Marty. “You forget how well I know you, Slugger.”

“Nuh-nuh-nothi…” Marty faltered at the hated stutter. Familiar warmth quickly spread over him when his dad’s finger pressed to his lips. He breathed deeply and relaxed. “I was just thinking,” he said eventually.

“About?”

Marty felt the hot blush creep up his neck, grateful for the dim cabin. “How much I wanna be like you one day.”

Martin blinked, then smiled at him.

“Random, I know,” Marty admitted.

“No, it’s not that. I just…” Martin suddenly hooked an arm around Marty’s flushed neck and pulled him in close. “You know how much I love you, right? I mean, do I say it enough?”